While I have no doubt that universities host fund raisers all the time, I have no knowledge if this is anywhere close to reality.

First published in Come To Your Senses 17. The first time I heard Loreena McKennitt perform the poetry I saw this performance unfold in front of my eyes.

"The Highwayman" was originally written by Alfred Noyes in the 18th Century. Loreena McKennitt sung this version of the poem on her album: The Book of Secrets.

The Highwayman

Blair dropped his backpack next to the door and slipped from his jacket while he greeted his roommate.

"You're not going to believe what happened to me today." He walked over to the 'fridge, snagged a bottled water and drained half of it.

Jim lifted the lid on the pot that was simmering and stirred it. "Let me guess, you got picked up for lewd and obscene behavior."

"Nope."

"The dean gave you your professorship without you having to finish your dissertation."

"Don't I wish."

"The homecoming queen asked you to marry her?"

"Get real." Blair was grinning at his partner's obvious good mood. When Jim offered him a taste of the sauce on his wooden spoon, he took it, eyes lighting at the taste. "Marinara sauce. What's the occasion?"

Jim shrugged his large shoulders. "In the mood I guess. So are you going to tell me the great news or what?"

"You know that every year the U has this big literature festival which ends with the drama department doing readings from various famous works? It's a fundraiser and a highbrow 'let's show everybody what we learned' sorta thing."

Jim nodded. "I seem to remember sleeping through one of those somewhere along the way. So?"

"So, Professor Adamson asked me to do a reading."

"You're not in drama." Jim started slicing bread, then handed Sandburg soft butter and garlic powder to mix. "How come?"

"Guess she heard me reading something the other day from one of the tribal histories that I lecture from. She said she liked the sound of my voice."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I've got this great idea, but I'll need your help to pull it off."

"I'm not going on stage." Jim's tone was final.

"You don't have to. I just want you to handle the lights and a few special effects."

"So what do you have in mind?" Jim handed Blair the sliced bread and started water for noodles, while his partner spread butter and garlic on the bread and began to explain.

The two weeks before the performance went fast. Between choosing a costume, setting up and practicing the lights and special effects, and memorizing lines, both men were pushed as their off work time was filled to the brim. When the university announced that they had a sold out evening for the performances, Blair began to get really nervous that what he'd planned was too ambitious.

They were doing one final rehearsal in the closed auditorium the day before the event. Blair was on stage with a clip-on mike, Jim off stage high on the catwalk with a bank of lights and controls at his fingertips.

"Blair, you've got to speak up. Even with the mike, I can just barely hear you." Jim called from his perch. "And don't pitch your voice so high. In fact, it might work better if you pitch it lower, kinda like Kathleen Turner."

"You think so?" Blair cleared his throat and started again, trying for deep and sultry.

"Hey, that's great. Kinda gives you goosebumps. Let me turn up the rear speakers." Soon Blair's voice filled the empty room. Jim nodded. "You're gonna bring down the house, Chief."

"Just as long as I don't screw up my lines."

The night of the performance

Jim adjusted his partner's costume, tying the corset over the floor length green and red skirt and peasant blouse and brushing out the long black wig. He studied Sandburg's reflection in the mirror in the small dressing room behind the stage. Other performers around them were putting on costumes and makeup, reading lines one more time, or pacing nervously. Blair caught his partner's gaze.

"What?" He settled the black wig over his own curls, pulling and tugging it into place.

"I never realized what a beautiful woman you could be. This outfit really suits you." He watched, grinning, as the smaller man applied lipstick and touched up his eyeshadow.

"I'm not sure how to take that, so I guess I'll take it as a compliment." He turned around, held up the little blood squib that would go into the padded bra and be exploded with a remote that Jim was handling from off stage. He settled it in place, nestled in a mound of tissues. "What do you think? I know we're using a capgun sized charge but I'm still a little nervous about that being against my skin."

Jim adjusted it, then grinned, winking at his smaller partner , while he cupped the fake cleavage. "Never thought a woman would let me cop a feel like this."

Blair glared. "Be careful." His voice dropped into the low range that he was using for the reading. "This woman defends herself."

Jim wagged his eyebrows. "I like a forceful lover."

"Really?" Blair let his eyes meet Jim's, his face expectant and challenging. "Guess I'll have to be careful." He grinned and the smile became it's own challenge.

Jim met the blue eyes and read the challenge there. He shook his head. "I think this subject will have to wait 'til after your performance. I've got to get in place."

"I'm going to hold you to that, okay?"

"Okay. See you in a little bit. Break a leg, Chief."

"Do my best." As soon as Jim disappeared up a ladder, Blair took his place in line with the students that were awaiting their turn to perform. On stage, two men were doing a scene from King Lear.

The performance

The curtains rose, the stage was dark. The crowd in the auditorium moved restlessly. Their program only read "The Highwayman" as read by Blair.

Around them the speakers filled the room with the rustling of wind that soon rose to a low howl. The lights rose on the stage, just barely enough to light the lone figure that stood there. The figure, a woman in historical dress was softly spotlighted. A soft husky voice grew as the wind died and the story whispered through the theater...

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas. And the Highwayman came riding,
Riding,
Riding.
The Highwayman came riding
Up to the old inn door."

Shod horses' hooves rattled over the speakers, and you could hear the snort of a horse that had been ridden long and hard. The spot on the stage brightened and a woman in full English servant clothing was revealed, long black hair twisted behind her neck. The voice gained strength, and the young woman swayed, a smile on her face, as she talked about her lover.

"He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin. A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, his pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all were locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there"

A low whistle echoed through the speakers, circling the room. The tune was "My Bonny lies Over the Ocean." The husky voice continued.

"But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair."

Hands pulled the long black hair over her shoulder, revealing a long red velvet ribbon that had been tied into a braid and bow. A new voice came over the speakers, deeply male, rousing.

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way."

The narrator's voice picked up the story again.

"He rose upright in the stirrups, he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement."

A hand pulled the ribbon free and the long black hair fell to her waist, waving and shimmering in the soft white light as she continued the poem.

"His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, And galloped away to the West."

The horse's hooves rattled through the speakers growing fainter over the cobblestones.

The spot on the figure dimmed, changed to a darker one, slowly adding yellow like candlelight. The story continued, her voice strong.

"He did not come at the dawning;
He did not come at noon,
And out of the tawny sunset,
Before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching,
Marching,
King George's men came marching
Up to the old inn-door."

The speakers were loud with a troop of mounted men, horses' hooves on cobblestones, snorting breath, men's laughter and voices. On stage, the narrator hastily pulled the long black hair back into a braid, tucked it under a ruffled bonnet that she'd pulled from a pocket, as she continued.

"They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her To the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window,
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see through the casement The road that he would ride."

On stage, the woman's arms were behind her, as if she'd been bound, her eyes focused somewhere over the theater crowd, face turned slightly upward as her voice told of her capture.

"They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her, She heard the dead man say -"

The man's voice was in the speakers again, far away and almost faint.

"Look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight,
Through hell should bar the way!"

On stage the performer pretended to fight the bonds that held her hands as she recited:

"She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands 'till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years! Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, cold on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!"

A trotting horse filled the silence, hooves faint in the distance. The figure looked up and the spot brightened slightly on her face, leaving the rest of her body dim. Her voice whispered:

"Tlot-Tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear Tlot-Tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight,
Over the brow of the hill,
The Highwayman came riding,
Riding,
Riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still!"

The horse's hooves grew closer, louder. On stage, the woman stood straight, blue eyes focused far away, face bright. Her voice whispered over the silent audience.

"Tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer, he came and nearer!
Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment!
She drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered in the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight
And warned him with her death."

A single shot echoed through the auditorium and the crowd jumped. On stage, the performer's figure slumped slightly, and a stain of red appeared on her breast, growing larger. But her voice continued, sadly.

"He turned; he spurred to the West;
He did not know she stood,
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket,
Drenched with her own red blood;
Not till the dawn he heard it;
His face grew grey to hear,
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, And died in the darkness there."

An enraged scream of 'Noooo!' echoed through the speakers, and the horse's hooves returned, fast and furious on the cobblestones. The body on stage almost disappeared into a gray light, as she stood tall again to finish the story. Her voice almost drowned out the furious horse.

"Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky With the white road smoking behind him and rapier banished high! Blood-red were the spurs in the golden noon; Wine-red was his velvet coat,"

The performer paused for breath and the horse hooves sounded louder, then a volley of gunfire shattered the silence. Then she finished the story, her voice hoarse, filled with grief.

"When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, With the bunch of lace at his throat."

The lights dimmed except for the gray that made the figure on stage a ghost. Around her feet, fog began to billow, creep over the stage and down into the first row. The wind started in the speakers, eerily mourning. Her voice echoed, suddenly whispering strongly.

"Still on a winter's night, they say,
When the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon,
Tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A Highwayman comes riding,
Riding,
Riding,
A Highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn door."

The stage went dark and the sound of horse's hooves clattered across the speakers before falling silent. The audience was silent for a long count of ten, and then the applause started and the theater crowd rose to its feet. Whistles filled the air and the applause shook the rafters.

The light on stage came on and the woman took a bow, then curtsied before disappearing behind the curtain. The applause continued unabated, and she stepped from behind the curtain again, this time holding the hand of a tall, muscular man, in tight black pants and black turtleneck. They both bowed, then the performer curtsied, one hand being held by her partner.

Backstage again, Blair pulled the blood soaked tissues from the blouse, tossed them in the trash. Jim was untying the corset, easing it so Blair could breathe.

A young man dressed as Hamlet stepped up to him. "Thanks a lot, Teach. How am I supposed to top that?"

"Just do your best, and don't get rattled." Blair patted his shoulder. "You'll be fine."

Hamlet frowned. "I hope so," then darted past them. Blair turned to his partner, smiling.

"What do you think? Did we do okay?"

A voice interrupted them before Jim could answer. "Okay? Okay!? You were wonderful!" Professor Adamson pushed her way through the performers that were milling around. "I haven't heard 'The Highwayman' in years, and I don't think I've ever seen it performed." She turned to Jim and introduced herself. "I don't think we've met."

Professor Adamson was barely Sandburg's height, even in heels, and her once auburn hair was swept up in curls on one side of a very thin face. "Jim Ellison." He shook the hand that took his, smiling his best professional smile. The professor kept hold of Jim's hand while she looked from one to the other. "You must come to the get together after the last reading. All of the performers are invited and our honored audience," she waved toward the auditorium, "as well. It gives them a chance to mingle and us a chance to persuade them to make the university a favorite charity. You simply must come."

Blair started to pull off the wig, but the professor stopped him. "Please, stay in costume. Nobody will know you if you aren't, and I'm sure there will be several that will want to meet the young lady who told such a stirring story."

Jim gently freed his hand. "Thank you for the gracious invitation, Professor. But I'm afraid that we have other commitments for the remainder of the evening." Jim's eyes were on his partner, and when Blair let out a silent sigh of relief, he congratulated himself on reading the grad student correctly.

"But surely you'll slip into the auditorium and watch the rest of the performers."

Blair spoke up. "We'd love to, but Jim is due at the police station at midnight."

At her puzzled frown, he quickly clarified the statement. "He's a detective with the Major Crimes division. I pulled him away from a stakeout to help me with this for a few hours."

"Really?" She looked at Jim's long body in black. "Detective Ellison, I would love to hear about your work sometime. Don't be a stranger." She pressed his hand again, but this time a business card was slid neatly into his palm. "Well, it was nice meeting you. Blair, thank you so much, and I'll be sure to pass on any congratulations that you might receive for your reading." Then she was off, pushing through the people milling around. Applause rose as Hamlet finished his soliloquy and took his bows.

Blair pulled off the wig, then the rubber band that held his hair out of sight. He gave both to Jim. "Thanks, Jim. I really didn't want to press the flesh tonight and wax poetic on the school system." He shook out the curls, ran his fingers through the compacted strands.

Jim chuckled at the young man as he smeared cold cream on his face and wiped off the theatrical makeup. The other performers were still milling around, and applause echoed through the backstage area as performers left the stage again. With each reading, the congestion in the wings of the stage grew less as the number of performers diminished. Jim was aware of the people around him, but at the same time he was totally focused on his partner. The younger man had struggled out of the long skirt and blouse, and was pulling on sweatpants and sweater over leggings and tee shirt. Jim pulled sneakers and socks out of the duffel bag at his feet and tossed them to his roommate.

"I will never complain about wearing a monkey suit again." Blair groused as he looked in the mirror again, grabbed a tissue and rubbed at eyeliner that he'd missed earlier. "Can you imagine being a woman and willingly wearing this stuff everyday?" He caught Jim's head shake. "What?"

"Remind me never to volunteer you for undercover work."

Blair's eyes grew large and his mouth dropped open. "Don't tell me that you dressed as a woman for some sting operation?"

"I never said that." Jim picked up the costume, folded the skirt and blouse before placing them back in their box. "I was just thinking how you'd have to shave more than your face." His voice held a laugh.

Blair growled. "Not on your life." He finished tying his shoes and grabbed his jacket. "Can we go now? We can miss the crowd."

"Sure, Chief." Jim dropped one hand on the small shoulder as they wound their way though the darkened stage area, missing people, props and equipment. The side door finally let them out into the cool darkness, and they trotted down the stair, heading for Jim's truck parked in a back lot.

The evening was almost clear and smelled of winter snow, just hiding over the other side of the mountains. They walked in silence, their feet beating a tattoo on the sidewalk. Jim's hand slid from its spot on his partner's shoulder to the back of Sandburg's neck, resting there as they walked, content in each other's company.

Blair finally cleared his throat. "We were having a conversation earlier."

Jim's hand tightened on the strong neck. "We were? About what?"

Blair turned, saw the grin on the older man's face and swatted at the arm that was still under his hair. "You know very well what."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that. Are we going to continue the topic, or are we going to ignore it?" Blair's stance had become slightly aggressive, hands on hips, face turned up, eyes bright. He almost bounced on his toes.

"Why do we have to talk about it? Why can't we just let it happen?" Jim crossed his arms, body closed to discussion.

"Because if we don't talk about it, it might not happen." Blair paused, staring at his friend in the near darkness between streetlights. "Am I misreading you here? We were talking about a relationship -" he pointed between the two of them "-you and I, right? Something more than friendship?"

"Yeah, Chief. We were. You'll just have to be patient. I'm not used to talking about my feelings." Jim rubbed his hand over his face, looking at his partner through split fingers for a second. Then he brushed the dark locks that had fallen into the collar of Sandburg's jacket. "I want to be more than your friend, so much more." He let his hand drift from the collar of the jacket to Blair's face, his thumb running across the pouty lower lip. "Will you let me?" He whispered.

"Oh, yeah." Blair closed his eyes, anticipating the kiss and was not disappointed.

Jim's lips touched his, then backed away, before returning and holding the touch for a breath.

"Jim." Blair whispered the name into the air between them. He finally opened his eyes, seeing the fully dilated pupils of the Sentinel, inches from his own. "I dreamed this."

Jim straightened, pulled the smaller body into his arms. "What happened?" He tucked Blair's head under his chin, almost rocking him as he felt his Guide's arms wrap around his waist.

"We made love." Blair's voice was muffled against the hard chest.

"That sounds promising."

They stood on the sidewalk until the boom of a opening door startled them and they pulled from the embrace. Jim firmly took his partner's hand as they continued their stroll toward the truck.

"Guess I'll have to tell Professor Adamson that you're spoken for."

"Am I spoken for, Chief?" Jim flashed a shy grin at the man at his side.

"Absolutely." Sandburg gripped the hand that held his tighter. He stopped in mid-step and pulled Jim back to him, this time initiating the embrace.

Jim looked startled for a second, then grinned. He tilted Blair's face up and kissed the full lips, first tentatively, then firmly. When the warm mouth opened under his, he plundered it, taking his time to sample every flavor, every sensation. He finally let go when he felt his partner start to struggle for air.

Blair sagged against the black turtleneck, panting. "Man, when you make a decision, you make a decision." He looked back into Jim's radiant face. "Wow."

Jim draped his arm around Blair's waist and started them toward the parking lot again. "I've always been a man of action."

"I think I could learn to like this." He let his head fall on the shoulder that was so close to his, matching their strides and sliding his hand into Jim's hip pocket. "I sure hope so, Blair, because this time, I'm playing for keeps."

"You mean that?" At Jim's nod, Blair smiled. "My Highwayman. Heart stealer".

Jim stopped them under a streetlight. "Absolutely. No more table legs, Chief." He looked into the sapphire eyes that twinkled at him.

Blair nodded. "No more redheads."

Jim nodded, then kissed his friend again, gently on the forehead. "Good, glad that's settled."

End The Highwayman by Toshua: Toshua@gci.net

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